I'm Pertinacious, Beckett
by WRTRD
Summary: Kate Beckett is an extraordinary woman, so Rick Castle is going to woo her in an out-of-the ordinary way. Set in season 4, beginning immediately after 4x10, "Cuffed." Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It all begins with cereal.

It's the day after the case involving the smuggling of endangered species. The one in which Kate Beckett and Rick Castle had been left handcuffed together in a filthy basement with a very hungry, very large tiger who had made it clear that they were her next meal, à la carte. They had gotten off the menu in the nick of time.

At 9:30 a.m. Castle steps out of the elevator and saunters to Beckett's desk. "Good morning, Detective," he says, placing a large cup of coffee and a brown-paper grocery bag in front of her.

"Thanks, Castle," she says, raising the latte in salute. She nods her head at his other offering. "What's that?"

"Open it and see." He looks very pleased with himself.

She, on the other hand, looks highly suspicious as she pulls the bag towards her, unrolls the top, and peers inside. "You got me Frosted Flakes?"

"I did. I thought you might be hungry, Beckett. And I thought you could use a little sweetness after the difficult day we had."

"At least it's not beef jerky."

"Hey, the tiger liked it. I probably saved our lives with that."

"Right. You know, I haven't had Frosted Flakes since I was in fourth grade."

"Then you're long overdue. Dig in."

"Well, for that I'd need a bowl and a spoon and milk."

"Which I am more than happy to provide," he says, producing another bag from behind his back before taking off his coat and sitting down. "I took the liberty of bringing two of everything. Hope you don't mind if I join you." He puts bowls, spoons, and half-pint cartons of milk on the edge of the desk, opens the box of cereal, and pours out two servings of sugar-coated cornflakes. He waits for her to begin; as soon she does, he takes a large bite and swallows noisily. "Mmm, these are …..These are…." He looks expectantly at her. She looks back, and slowly licks a tiny drop of milk from her bottom lip. He tries not to swoon girlishly. "Beckett? These are…."

She can't resist. She'll do it. She leans across her keyboard until she's only inches away from him. "Grrrrrrreat!" Then she bounces back in her chair and laughs. "Thanks, Tony." She has another spoonful.

"You're welcome." He's a happy man.

Castle stays for a few hours, fills in a couple of details on the case for which Beckett is doing the paperwork, and hangs out a bit with Ryan and Esposito. By noon he's ready to leave.

"Sorry you can't find anything to captivate you here, Castle," Beckett says, watching him put on his scarf.

"We'll call you when there's some fresh meat," Ryan adds, accepting a fist bump from his partner.

"Thanks. Well, I have an important errand to do. See you, guys."

Riding down in the elevator, Castle mulls over what Beckett had said to him at the precinct the previous day, right after they had closed the case. He hadn't imagined it. She'd said, "For what it's worth, if I ever have to spend another night handcuffed to someone again, I wouldn't mind if it was you." He had played that sentence over and over and over again in his brain, all evening. Turned it upside down and inside out. He couldn't sleep for it, and had finally gotten out of bed, gone to his office, and begun to sketch out a plan. This is it: he's not waiting any longer for Kate Beckett. He's going to woo her, not with flowers and candy, because that's not her style. She's extraordinary, and he's going to win her over in out-of-the-ordinary ways. Frosted Flakes was just the beginning, a way to sweeten her up a little. Cereal was part one. His important errand is part two: he's off to a place he knows on West 44th, where the owner promises that he has exactly what he needs. So what if it sets him back 850 bucks? Besides, the cereal was only four ninety-nine.

While Castle's in a specialty shop in midtown, Beckett takes a quick look around the bullpen. The boys have stepped out; she's in no one's sight line. She furtively opens her bottom drawer, pushes her hand inside, and comes up with a fistful of Frosted Flakes, which she downs in an instant. "Even better without milk," she says to herself, smiling in a brief and silent acknowledgement that Castle is, God help her, adorable.

There's no new case the following day, so she's surprised when she sees her partner crossing the floor. "Hey, Castle. What's up?"

"Not much. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I'd drop by. It's brutal out there."

"Brutal? Doesn't seem that cold. Isn't it 35 degrees, something like that?"

"I meant the Christmas shoppers, slamming you in the kidneys with their bags of presents. All those people who wait 'til the last minute. They should totally have finished by now."

"It's December ninth, Castle. Christmas is still two weeks away. Not exactly last-minute."

"Sixteen days away, and I was done before Thanksgiving."

"Not everyone is as obsessive as you about the holidays. And if you were finished last month, why did you have to dash off shopping yesterday when you could have stayed here and actually helped?"

"I didn't say I was shopping, I said I was going on an important errand."

Just as he plops down in his chair, she stands up. "In my experience? For you those two words, shopping and errand, are interchangeable. But since you're here, escaping the bedlam that you claim is just outside our doors, do you want coffee? I'm getting some."

"Thanks, yes."

When she comes back from the break room carrying two mugs she spies a small envelope leaning against her phone. "Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"You put this here?"

"Yup."

"It's from the baseball place. The one with all those amazing collectibles."

"Yup."

"Who are you all of a sudden, Calvin Coolidge?"

"Nope."

"Drink your coffee, Cal. I'm going to open this." She has just put a fingertip under the sealed flap when she stops and looks at him. "This wouldn't be what your errand was about, would it?"

"Yup."

"Oh my God, I'm going to rip this open and—"

He looks alarmed, and reaches out to stop her. "No, Beckett, be careful! Don't tear it."

She laughs. "You're so easy, Castle. You know I never open anything that way. You're the one who's unwraps things like a six-year-old." She carefully opens the envelope and slips out a small plastic sleeve that's protecting a small piece of cardboard.

Watching her face as she realizes what she's holding is melting him, and he has to call on priestly self-control to prevent himself from jumping across the desk and kissing her as hard as he can.

"Castle?"

Oh, dear God, the way she said that. The drawing out of the s. The little uptick at the end. The elllllll. He could die right now.

"This is, this is—"

"Tiger got your tongue, Beckett?"

"Al Kaline. This is Al Kaline's rookie card."

"It is. And Al Kaline, a.k.a. Mister Tiger, signed it personally. I'm told he played for the Detroit Tigers for twenty-two years."

"He did. But Castle, this must have cost a fortune. I can't accept this."

"I can afford it. The Nikki Heat books alone have made me—well, never mind how much they've made me. Should be giving you half the royalties, except you've already refused to accept them. So accept this."

"But—"

"I know you don't really celebrate Christmas or it could be your Christmas present. Let's call it a commemoration of our having narrowly escaped death at the hands—well, paws—of a tiger. I'd have gotten you a card of a Yankee legend like Babe Ruth, but under the circumstances one of a Detroit Tiger seemed more appropriate."

Her eyes are still wide, and still gleaming. "But how did you even know that I'm an Al Kaline fan?"

"You might have demonstrated to me your interest in baseball on a few occasions. Like about fifty. "

"Oh, please, I have not."

"How about that interminable stake out last April when you insisted on reciting every Yankee lineup from 1987 to the present? And describing to me in excruciating detail the Hall of Fame players you most admire."

Does she know her face is coloring? Because it is. She's blushing. Actually blushing. Right here in front of him.

"You told me that was hot."

Her face is redder now.

"What I thought was hot was the way you said two of the Hall of Fame guys. Cristóbal Torriente and Al Kaline."

"You remember me saying Cristóbal Torriente and Al Kaline?"

"Just because I sometimes ignore what you say doesn't mean I'm not listening. I remember everything you say, especially if it sounds sexy."

"Geez, Castle, you think Al Kaline's name sounds sexy?"

"When you say it? Yeah, Kaline. It sounds feral, feline." He takes a chance and looks her right in the eye. "Like a wildcat."

She sits up very straight, and arranges her face into a passive expression. "I thought you'd had enough of wildcats."

"Not human ones, Kate." He lands hard on the K.

Beckett tucks a strand of hair behind her hair, which he knows is a tell: she's embarrassed, but pleased. Ah, he's got her. Okay, not got her yet, but he's made a little progress. Now she's clearing her throat, another tell. "Well, anyway, thank you. This card—it's incredible. I'm going to take it home, can't leave it here. I'll treasure this, really."

He's got his chin in his palm, and he's still looking at her. "Got your own personal hall of fame at home, do you?"

"I might."

See! See! There it is! The all-but-invisible-except-to-him movement at the corner of her mouth when she's suppressing a smile. "Am I going to get to see it? You know, now that I've contributed something."

"Maybe." She tidies up the already perfectly aligned pencils that are next to her pile of manila folders. "I gotta finish this up," she says, patting the folder on top. "I don't suppose you'd like to assist for once?"

"Nope. Going to brave the madness outside again. Got to go to the supermarket, cupboards are practically bare."

"Down to your last case of gourmet popcorn, are you?" Now she really is smiling.

"Something like that. Tomorrow, Detective?"

"I'll be here, Castle." She puts her palm over the baseball card. "Seriously, thanks again. For this."

"My pleasure," he says as he turns to go to the elevator. His expression says it, too.

Her shift ends several hours later. She hasn't been out all day, not once, and she's looking forward to the fresh air. She pulls open the desk drawer where she keeps her bag and finds a manila envelope on top, addressed to her. Huh. It's from Comicadia, the best comic-book store in the city—no, best one in the country. She and Castle had even been there together on a case a couple of months ago. Could it—? No. Yes. No. He must have put it in there this morning when she was in the break room, getting coffee. She wants to open it at home, but over the years some of Castle's exuberance has worn off on her, and she doesn't want to wait to look. It's a copy of issue number 5 of _Watchmen_ , from about 25 years ago. Huh. She lets her mind wander. Aha! Got it. It's the "Fearful Symmetry" chapter and she's pretty sure… wait, wait, she flips to the end and smacks the page. Yes! There it is, a quote from Blake's poem. "Tyger, Tyger/burning bright." She's glad that he's not there to hear her chuckle.

She gets her phone and calls Castle, who answers on the first ring.

"Beckett?"

"Very clever."

"I love being called clever, but what's the occasion?"

"The comic book."

"Oh, you found it!"

"Pretty hard to miss. Although I should be ticked off at you for going through my drawers."

"I'd love to go through your drawers, but I did no such thing. I opened one drawer, singular, of your desk, which is technically police property and thus not yours, and left an envelope on top of your bag. Into which I did not look. Your bag."

"Overlooking the legal niceties, and possible trespass, thank you for the comic. 'Tyger, tyger.' I see a theme here, a very tigerish theme."

"That's why you're the best detective in the NYPD, Beckett. Nothing gets by you."

"So, Castle, is there a reason for this tiger—this, uh, tiger largesse?"

He's quiet for a moment, wants to put this the right way.

"Castle?"

"Hi. Here. Well, that was a hell of a time we had with the tiger and I thought it would be nice to give you something—for you to have something good to remember about it."

Now it's her turn to be quiet. "I already do."

She said that? She really said that? "Me, too."

"Night, Castle."

"Tomorrow, Beckett." He puts down his phone, an even happier man now than he was yesterday.

TBC

 **A/N** From a one-word prompt from mobazan27: Pertinacity

 **A/N** To those who live in places where Frosted Flakes are not part of the cultural fabric: the cereal's spokes-animal is Tony the Tiger, who calls the cornflakes grrrrrreat!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Castle wishes that he could do this at the precinct, let everyone know exactly how he feels about Beckett, but she'd kill him. And the real problem with that, other than his death, which he hopes is many decades away? His mother would have to finish raising Alexis, which is not a reassuring thought. If he died of natural causes—say, being run over by a taxi because he was looking up dreamily at Beckett's window as he is doing at the moment, though from the relative safety of the sidewalk—Alexis would be in Beckett's care. But if Beckett killed him, she'd go to jail and wouldn't be able to fulfill her duties as his daughter's legal guardian.

Which is why he's doing this at her apartment rather than her workplace. He has a key to the building, so getting access is easy, even at three o'clock in the morning. He chose this time because it's easy to find a parking spot (and it was, only 25 feet away) and the chance of her catching him in the act, remote. He picked up the extravagant arrangement of flowers of six hours ago, and the florist wrapped it with particular care.

Castle is walking very gingerly to her door, since it's hard to see around the paper cocoon that surrounds the bouquet: it's as big as a linebacker and as difficult to maneuver. When he finally arrives, he places the bundle safely on the mat, steadies it one last time, and tiptoes to the stairs.

At 7:30 Beckett is leaving for work and comes eye-to-eye—had the enormous, amorphous thing actually had an eye—with the package. Her scream could wake the dead. It certainly wakes the dog across the hall, who begins to bark wildly. Her pulse rate is returning to normal but her hand is still over her heart when she realizes that the base of the unidentifiable object is an oversized vase. "God almighty," she says, propping the door open and dragging in what she's guessing is something from Castle.

She closes the door, carries the vase and its well-swaddled contents into the living room, gets a pair of scissors, and slowly snips away until she can pull off the paper. Ohhh. Ohhh. The hand that had been over her heart is now at her mouth. The flowers are beautiful, and an astonishment at this time of year. "Tiger lilies," she says, running a fingertip over one of the delicately curving orange petals. She can't sort out how many stems there are, but clearly dozens. She's so captivated that she hasn't noticed time passing, but two things happen as she starts folding up the paper to throw it away. The first is that her watch catches her eye: it's quarter to eight; the second is that a small velvet bag with a drawstring of ribbon rolls directly in front of her. Dammit, she's so late, she can't stop for this. She picks up the bag, shoves it into her jacket pocket and heads out.

On the two-block walk to the subway and all the way to the precinct, she keeps one hand in her pocket, fingers wrapped around the little bag. When she reaches her desk—glaring just a little at the boys who are shooting her looks of mock horror and pointing at the wall clock—she takes off her coat and goes to the ladies room. Shutting herself in a stall, she opens the bag and finds a plush tiger that nestles perfectly in her palm. Pinned to it is a scrap of paper with handwriting that she immediately recognizes: "As Tigger said, 'I've found someone just like me. I thought I was the only one of them'." She puts it all back in her pocket, and works on eliminating the smile that has taken over her face before anyone can see it.

She'll text him from her desk.

Ever since he got out of bed to see Alexis off to school, Castle has been wondering about Beckett's reaction to the flowers. He hasn't heard from her. Did one of her neighbors steal them? Some of them seem a little dubious. Shifty-eyed, even. Oh, God, maybe she got them but she hates them? Were Tigger and the quote a step too far? That had been a last-minute addition; he had planned on just the flowers—yeah, yeah, yeah, he had told himself no flowers, but that resolve crumbled the instant he told her that he wanted her to have something good to remember about the tiger case and she said, "I already do." Oh, hey, he hadn't signed anything! Maybe she doesn't know the things are from him!

Even on only two hours' sleep he knows that's insane.

His phone pings, alerting him to an incoming text. He picks it up between his thumb and index finger, as if it were either on fire or transmitting poison directly into his skin. Does she hate him? He winces as he checks the screen.

"Wow! Never seen so many TIGER lilies in my life."

That's good, right? She didn't say she liked them, but she didn't say they were awful. And she said "wow!" He's going to reply. "Seemed like the right choice, Beckett."

Ping. "Glad they weren't roses and sunflowers."

"You remember that? From our first case?"

"Duh. Yes."

"Of course you do."

"You're not the only one who pays attention, Castle."

He's trying to formulate a response that's clever but not spilling over into smart-ass territory when she texts again.

"They're gorgeous. Thank you. I'd ask where you found them in December, but I don't really want to know."

She likes them! "You're welcome."

That's it. Nothing else from her. Nothing about Tigger. Maybe she really had missed it, thrown it away with the hundreds of square feet of paper that were covering the lilies? He's not going to ask. Not going to be too pushy. Yet.

Ping. "I xo Tigger."

Aww! He says that out loud, standing in the kitchen in his pajama bottoms and a tee shirt that she had borrowed once and which he now wears on special occasions. Such as her saying "I already do." And now she's said that she xo's Tigger. A day doesn't get much better than this.

But then it does. Ten minutes later she calls him. "Hey, Castle, we've got a body."

"Yeah? You got a spoiler alert? Before I meet you there."

"Yup. The guy fell out a window onto a cart of fruit."

"Safe to say it's spoiled, then."

"It is now. Especially the bananas."

"Beckett!" He has to take a moment, since he's choking. "Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Yeah. Can you text me the address, please?"

"Sure. Oh, and one more thing?"

By now he's almost tap-dancing, barefoot. "What?"

"He was naked."

She hangs up before he can say a word.

The case takes up every minute of the first day. No time for flirting of any kind, never mind wooing. He does have one inspired idea, though: on the way home he stops by one of the edible arrangement places that make cut-up fruit look like a basket of flowers. He looks over the options, and after some exasperating discussion with the salesman chooses the priciest arrangement.

"So you're telling me that this one has two kinds of melon, grapes, pineapple, strawberries and…kale? Kale isn't fruit, and if you ask me it isn't edible," Castle says.

"The kale is, like, garni."

"Garni?"

"That's the fancy word for garnish."

"So if I were to buy the cheapest arrangement here it would be garnish, not garni?"

"Probably, yeah."

"Anyway, garnish? Why do you need garnish?"

"It's like, you know, to look like leaves."

"You don't eat it, then?"

"Not unless you want to, I guess."

"Just to get this straight, you have kale in your arrangements, but no bananas?"

"No sir, no bananas."

He pays the guy an outrageous amount of money to ensure that the basket will be at the precinct before Beckett gets there the next morning.

She is, in fact, the first one in, as she usually is. The desk sergeant greets her as soon as she comes through the door. "Detective? Got something here for ya."

"Yeah? Thanks, Stoddard."

"Sent one of these to my mother-in-law when she had her varicose vein surgery last month," he says as he hands her the basket. "Set me back eighty bucks."

She sees the envelope; no need to open it here. Definitely no need.

"So who's it from, Beckett?"

"Uh—"

"Secret admirer?"

"Something like that." She needs to distract him and to get upstairs as quickly as possible. "Please, take some? Help yourself. Very good for you. Healthy."

"Thanks. I'll have one of those slices of chocolate-dipped honeydew."

"Not so healthy, Sarge."

"Whatever," he says, taking a very healthy bite. "Mmmm, good."

She's almost at the elevator when Stoddard calls out. "Hang on to that secret admirer. He's a keeper if he sends you stuff like this."

"Right." She smiles as the doors close. Since she's alone, she opens the envelope and reads the one-line message. "Fresh out of bananas." She cackles, and manages to hide the card in her bag just before the elevator stops at her floor.

When Castle gets there, two hours later, the first thing he sees is the fruit on her desk, or what's left of it. As always, he has coffee for both of them, and he gives one cup to her. "Looks like someone's been picking fruit, Beckett."

"Someone has."

"A little picked over, too, I'd say."

"Yup, very popular with the entire squad." She mouths, "Thank you."

"May I have some?"

"Please, help yourself."

"I will, thanks. Have these grapes." He pops two into his mouth and chews. "Excellent. Winy aftertaste." He looks over to Ryan and Espo. "Hey, guys, did you try this fruit of Beckett's? Really good."

"It's from her secret admirer," Espo says sourly.

"You have a secret admirer, Beckett?" Oh, that's what she'd said? He loves being her secret admirer. "Who? Come on, you can tell us."

"Cold day in Hell ring a bell with you, Castle?"

"Oooh, aren't we touchy!" Touchy-feely, that's what he's hoping for. One day soon. He sips his coffee, and just then Ryan arrives with some new information about the vic, a slimeball pickup artist, and they're all back in it again.

It takes a few all-consuming days to wrap up the case of the guy who was not only a skeevy Lothario but a corporate spy, and then boom, it's time for Ryan and Jenny's wedding. Alexis bails on him at the last minute, but the good news is that Beckett is going without a date and says they can be each other's plus-ones. And what's more fertile ground for sowing some seeds of romance than a wedding? He is a happy man.

Espo, Castle and Beckett head out together and say goodbye when they reach the sidewalk, all with some variation on the see-you-at-the-wedding-tomorrow theme.

Beckett has just unlocked her door when she gets a text from Castle. "Check your email." That's all it says. She decides to do that on her computer rather than her phone, and sits at her desk to log on. There it is. Huh. A gift of an iTune. She opens it and the song begins. "Yes, we have no bananas! We have no bananas today!"

She laughs out loud, and just like that, it hits her. She is a happy woman.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Oh, Jenny, you look amazing." That's what he said this afternoon when he saw the bride at the top of the stairs, and he meant it.

What he didn't say was, "But not as amazing as you, Kate. Not half." Didn't stop him from thinking it, though. Thinking it during the service and the receiving line and the dinner and the toasts and the dancing. Especially the dancing. Particularly especially overwhelmingly then.

They arrived at the church separately, and he didn't see her until just before the ceremony. She was standing in the vestibule, in front of a group of tall candles that backlit her with some kind of ethereal glow. He's still a little ashamed of the unholy thoughts that went through his mind then, but. He's having them now, too, as he watches her; she's about ten feet away, holding a plate with a piece of wedding cake in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. In theory—and probably in practice, on almost any other woman—the dress is conservative: it's a plain, muted color, and skirts her knee. The gently scooped neck and the short sleeves are downright demure. But the fit? It's as though she's inside some unknown liquid that moves exactly as she does. It must be ichorous; that's what it is, the fluid that ran in the veins of the gods. Goddesses, she's definitely a goddess. It's one of the sexiest things he's ever seen. An old tune floats into his head and he begins to hum, "Every breath you take, every move you make…" Huh. A song by the Police. Perfect.

What room there is in his brain for another thought is filled with what happened just before they took their seats in the church. He told her that he kind of envied Ryan, and she said, "Who knows, Castle? Maybe third time's a charm." And then she hooked her arm through his, and thank God, too, or his knees might have buckled. He's watching her now in that liquid gray, and imagining a wedding dress. Don't push her, he reminds himself. Not yet.

Castle sees the DJ nod at him, a prepaid signal that the last dance is up next, and he's at Beckett's side before her fork is back on the plate. He's not letting any other guy in this room get near her now. They'd been cutting in all night, and he'd had it. He wants her all to himself. "May I have this dance?" he asks, putting his arm around her waist in a daringly proprietary way.

"You may."

The music starts. "Make You Feel My Love."

"I'm crazy for this song," she says.

"Me, too. Bob Dylan and Adele, who'd a thought it? What a combo."

"Yeah," she says, so close that he can almost feel the ichorous in her veins.

"Almost as unexpected a combo as the two of us."

She draws her head back. "You think?"

He smiles and whispers, "Yeah, only we're gonna be much better." She doesn't respond. Uh-oh. Did he just cross the continental divide? Rush into the Land of Pushing Too Hard? She's still not saying anything, but at least she hasn't moved away from him. That must be worth something. How long is this song, anyway? He'd wanted it to go on forever, but if he has screwed up he wants it to end this instant, so he can fix things. And then he feels it, the warm breath against his ear.

"You might be right."

He wills himself to remain standing, and moving, not to get down on his knee in the middle of their friends' wedding and propose to her. To round up the priest and get him to marry them right there on the dance floor. Instead he keeps his mouth shut, but does let himself pull her a little closer. "Make You Feel My Love"? No way she's not feeling his. Down, boy, he thinks.

The dance is over, and the newlyweds are about to leave. As Jenny gets ready to throw her bouquet, Castle curses himself for not having bribed her to aim it directly at Kate. One of the bridesmaids snares it and squeals. For now, he's content with the two-year-old memory of Kate's face when she caught Kyra's bouquet.

Claiming that he needs to visit the men's room before driving home, he runs to the valet to find out where his car is parked, races there to get a small bag from the trunk, and returns just as Kate emerges from the ladies'. He has taken off his jacket so that he can hide the bag underneath it. "All set?"

"Yup."

"Great wedding, wasn't it?" This is the best he can come up with? God.

"It was. They look so happy, too."

"Mmmhmm." His verbal skills are not improving. "Here's the valet. If your give me your ticket they can bring our cars together. Want to make sure you get it, uh, safely. Make sure no one dinged a fender while we were here."

"Dinged a fender?"

"Well, you know. Okay, I'm just sort of seeing to your car."

She squeezes his arm. "Thanks, Castle. Very gentlemanly. Martha brought you up right."

"I'll tell her. She'll be pleased. Stunned, maybe, but pleased."

Both cars pull up. As she gets in hers he says, "Wait! Where's your goody bag?"

She looks taken aback. "Goody bag? What?"

He produces a silver bag, its paper handles secured with strands of curling ribbon. "Here it is. You must have missed it. I grabbed it on the way out. By the door." He thrusts it into her hands. "Night, Kate. Thanks for being my wedding date."

"Thank you, Castle." She gives him the best smile ever, and drives off.

She's not even out of the driveway before she starts thinking about the bag, which is perched on the seat next to her. She didn't miss it. She'd have seen it. Besides, it's silver, and silver is not one of the colors that Jenny chose for the wedding. It's Castle. Has to be. Something else from him. She wants to pull over on the hideous shoulder of the hideous BQE to find out what it is, but she doesn't. She's made of stronger stuff. Where the hell had he hidden it, anyway? She mulls it over. His car! He must have gone there while she was in the bathroom, and that's why he was slightly out of breath.

The bag taunts her all the way into Manhattan, and she tries to ignore it. She manages to hold out until she gets into her elevator, where she undoes the ribbons. There's a box of super-fancy long-grain rice, with a Post-It attached: "Never know when you might run into a wedding." Next to it, covered in several sheets of gold tissue paper, is a mug that says **+1** and is filled with Hershey kisses. How had he gotten that so quickly? Why is she even asking? It's undoubtedly another in a long line of questions with the same answer, "I know a guy." As soon as she's in her apartment she unwraps a chocolate kiss and pops it in her mouth. "I bet he tastes of chocolate," she says to the crumpled foil wrapper, and blushes in the dark, the only person there.

They hit a rough patch right after the wedding, when the Mayor is a suspect in a murder investigation, and there are awful repercussions. Castle's close friend will never seek higher office, after all, and Castle and Beckett's relationship, both professional and personal, declines sharply. He defends the Mayor; she say's he's too close to the case and ignoring the facts. It's a miserable week for all of them.

He doesn't stop aching for her, but he does stop pursuing her for a bit—until a new case brings about The Great Beckett-Castle Thaw. A renowned trainer and dog show judge had been murdered, his body found by a reality TV star. Castle and Beckett warm up over two things. The first is their mutual amusement over Esposito's crush on the TV star, whose chest measurement almost certainly exceeds her IQ. The second is their mutual love for the vic's sole survivor, a golden retriever named Royal who needs a home.

He wants the dog.

She wants the dog.

So they're sharing custody. "We could all live together, Beckett!" he wants to say, as he and the retriever come through her door and she complains about his being late. At first it feels a little adversarial, as if they're a couple in the painful process of splitting apart, not coming together. But then he looks at her, and he thinks it's not.

And then he knows it's not. He had discovered that Royal loves being rubbed on the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, and he decides to demonstrate on Beckett's hand, which is enticingly near his own. "Just little circles with your thumb," he says, "just like this. Not too hard, just…" He stops. The air is electric, and he can almost see a blue-and-white line, crackling and sparking between them.

"Castle."

He lets go of her hand because she looks a little spooked. He leaves quickly, more cheerily than he feels, but waits outside her door for a few minutes and shamelessly eavesdrops. She sounds so happy talking to the dog, and he hears her squeaking the toy that he brought. That's enough for him, right now.

When they close the case, the very next day, they compete to see which one the big furry guy chooses—only to see him trot off with the unreality TV star instead, rather than with either of them. "No accounting for taste," he says to Beckett as the pooch departs.

"Maybe Royal isn't as smart as he looks," she says, lightly scratching the top of his head as if he were a dog. He feels hope settling in his soul again. He feels a plan coming on.

The following day is Friday, and since there's no new case, Castle stays at home. He has to: it takes him several hours to nail down his plan. At four he calls Beckett at the precinct.

"Tomorrow is Saturday."

"Very good, Castle. It follows Friday, which is today."

"Be ready at eight-thirty tomorrow morning."

"What? I want to sleep in."

"No you don't."

"Excuse me?"

"You never do, Beckett. You're always texting me with weird questions at dawn on the weekends."

"Am not."

"Are too. I've saved all of them." Oops. He hurries on. "Anyway, even if you did like to sleep in, you shouldn't tomorrow. I promise you won't regret it."

He hears he sigh. "All right. But I'm agreeing only because you looked so broken-hearted when Royal didn't choose you."

"He didn't choose you, either."

"Right, we can join the Lonely Hearts Club together."

Lonely Hearts? Never again. N-E-V-E-R. "I'll pick you up at eight-thirty. Wear jeans. And sneakers. And a warm jacket. O, and gloves. Very important."

"Thanks for the fashion advice, Castle. See you tomorrow."

He's thirty minutes early, but the coffee is in a thermos, staying hot, and the muffins he made will not go stale in half an hour. After half an hour propped against the her door jamb, he knocks.

"Morning, Castle."

"Morning, Beckett. You're ready, I see."

"Lead on, Macduff," she says, locking the door behind them. "And don't correct me by saying that Shakespeare actually wrote 'Lay on, Macduff'. Because lead on sounds so much better. Apologies to the Bard."

"I wasn't going to. I was going to say, 'That's lead on, McGruff.' You know, the dog that takes a bite out of crime."

Their conversation continues on this less than exalted and completely wonderful plane until they reach his car. After they buckle up, he plies her with coffee and a muffin. "Very tasty," she says. "You gonna tell me where we're going?"

"Columbus Circle."

"Why?"

"You'll see, McGruff."

They wait only a few minutes on West 58th Street before two large blue vans arrive. Castle points. "That's us. Let's go." As they're walking over, the van drivers open the back doors and a dozen rambunctious young dogs and six handlers jump down.

"Castle? What is this?"

"Pups Behind Bars. It's a program where prison inmates train service dogs for people with handicaps. It's incredible, Beckett. Once the training's far enough along, the dogs come down here from time to time so they can get used to being in a city, having to negotiate things. Cool, right?"

"So, what, we're meeting the dogs?"

"We're not just meeting them, we're the volunteers who get to walk them. All over the place. We can take them to the park, go in stores, let them sniff fire hydrants, everything."

They've gotten their instructions and are about to set off when Beckett asks their handler, "Excuse me, what are their names? These dogs?"

"Oh, sorry, can't believe we didn't cover that. You're with two of our best, ma'am. Mister Castle has Turner and you have Hooch. We'll see you back here at three."

They're still standing on the sidewalk and Beckett turns to Castle. "We're switching dogs. You definitely have to have Hooch."

His eyes go wide. "Seriously? I thought you'd like giving him commands. Having Hooch on a leash."

"Good point, Castle. He's staying with me."

Six hours later, exhausted and happy, they return the dogs and go back to his car. "I'll drive you home," Castle says. "I think I need to sleep at least until dinnertime."

"Me, too," she says, trying to stifle a yawn as she settles into her. "This was an amazing day. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Thanks for coming."

"You can wake me up early anytime," she says, dropping her hand on top of his.

He's about to say something, but she's already asleep.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Beckett sleeps all the way home. She doesn't budge when he hits a pothole the size of his bed, which he wishes they were in; even when some jerk runs a red light and Castle has to slam on the brakes, she doesn't move.

It's an urban miracle: a van that's parked in front of her building drives away just as they're approaching, and Castle pulls into the space. Her head has rolled to the left so her face is turned towards him, and he watches her as long as he dares. He could sit there for hours, but she'd dissect him if he did, so after five minutes—nowhere near long enough—he wakes her.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

"Huh?"

"You're home."

"Castle!"

Oh, she doesn't sound happy. "What?"

She makes a face as she scrubs the back of her hand across her mouth and chin. "I drooled. On your car seat. You let me drool on it."

"I didn't let you. There was no permission involved. I was driving. Had to keep my eyes on the road."

"Right. Like you never looked at me once the whole way down here. Ugh, I'm so slobbery."

"You're a lot less slobbery than Turner and Hooch. Cuter, too. Beside, a little drool never hurt anything."

Now she's muttering. "Speak up, Beckett," he asks cheerily. "I must be getting old. Can't understand a word you're saying."

"I said, 'I can't believe you didn't wake me up'."

"If I'd done that you'd probably be back-seat driving from the front seat, right? Since you're almost always the one behind the wheel."

"Sorry I'm cranky. I guess I really do need a nap."

"Want me to come upstairs and tuck you in, Beckett? I tell a pretty good bedtime story."

She smiles that smile that could feed him for a week. "I'm sure you do, Castle, but I'm afraid I'd conk out before the ending. And I don't like that."

"Can't have you falling asleep on me."

"Really? I'd have thought you'd love that." She laughs, unbuckles her seat belt, leans over, and kisses him on the cheek. "Thanks, Castle. For everything." She gets out of the car, and when she reaches the lobby door turns and waves. He wasn't expecting that, and his palm is still cradling the spot where her lips had just been.

Two days later they're deep in the case of a man who was murdered in the wreck of the legendary Pennybaker Club, which had been the city's hottest jazz spot in the '30s and '40s. The vic was a modern-day treasure hunter on the trail of a million-dollar necklace shaped like a blue butterfly. It had belonged to Tom Dempsey, the Pennybaker's mobster owner, and had disappeared in 1947, the same day that Vera Mulqueen, Dempsey's gun moll, and a P.I. named Joe Flynn were killed in the alley behind the club. The Blue Butterfly had never been found; neither had the murderer, though Dempsey had been the prime suspect. Vera and Joe had fallen hard for each other and Dempsey had not been pleased.

It's the kind of case that Castle loves, especially its film-noirish aspects. Among the treasure hunter's effects was Joe Flynn's diary, and Beckett's drooling in the car is nothing compared to Castle's over the diary. "This guy sounds like a hard-boiled P.I. right out of a Raymond Chandler novel," he tells his partner. The minute he begins to read it he conjures up scenes, making a movie in his head: he casts Beckett as Vera and assigns himself the role of Joe. It's perfect—except for Vera and Joe being dead, of course.

Except they're not. It turns out that Vera and Joe are very much alive, now in their 80s and still in love. The charred bodies that had been identified as theirs were actually those of another couple; the lovebirds had taken advantage of those deaths and taken on new identities. They had hidden the necklace behind a loose brick in the alley wall and had never attempted to get it back.

Beckett knows that throughout the investigation Castle is imagining them as Vera and Joe. At one point he reads aloud from the diary, "As they stared into each other's eyes, Kate's heart quickened," and she calls him on it. He denies it in a splutter. "What? No. And I didn't say 'Kate,' I said 'Fate.' 'Fate's heart quickened. I was being poetic."

"My mistake, Mister Wordsworth," she says.

They don't turn Joe and Vera in; what's the point? Castle wonders if Beckett would have in an earlier time, before he started working with her. He knows that he's softened her up a little and not just around the edges.

"I wish we could give them his old diary," Castle says after they've wrapped up the case.

"I do, too, but it's evidence. Besides, we have to protect their identities."

"You know, it really is like a Chandler novel. I've read every one of his stories. What about you, Beckett? They must be up your alley. You have a favorite?"

"Never read one."

"What?" He leaps off his chair. "Not possible."

"Calm down. Sit down. Never read one."

"But you're a well-educated woman. You read more great literature than anyone I know."

"Emphasis on great, Castle."

"Chandler is great literature," he says solemnly, his hand over his heart. "Great American literature. I think I have to go have a drink, try to recover from this shock."

"A whiskey, neat? Rye? Isn't that what guys like that drank?"

"Verisimilitude does not extend to my liquor. I'm a single-malt Scotch guy, as I know you know."

"Go drown your sorrow or disappointment or whatever, then."

"Actually I have to go home and make dinner for Alexis."

"Night, Castle."

"See you tomorrow, Beckett."

Oh, yes, he'll see her tomorrow. See her with something important, from his own collection. As soon as he gets home, even before he starts cooking, he gets it from the shelf and wraps it in tissue paper.

When he arrives at the precinct the next morning, he hands Beckett her coffee and a small parcel.

"Thank you. What's this?"

"Unwrap it and see."

She peels the paper back so slowly it's agony for him, but he maintains a placid expression and hopes that she can't hear his teeth grinding. "Huh, should have known you couldn't wait to educate me Castle," she says, carefully examining the dust jacket of Raymond Chandler's _The Big Sleep_. "This copy looks really old."

"It is. Signed. First edition. 1939."

She inches it gingerly towards him. "I can't take this Castle, it must be worth a fortune. And I might hate it, you know, so it would be wasted on me."

"A, it's not possible that you will hate it," he says, pushing the book back to her. "B, it's my copy, so this is a loan. You don't have to worry about it."

"Are you kidding? I'd worry about it even more. If I forgot it on the subway or spilled something on your ten-thousand dollar—"

"Sixteen."

"Jesus, Castle. You spent sixteen grand on this?"

"It was worth it to me. Besides, it's a good investment. I thought you'd like the title, too. A timely reference."

" _The Big Sleep_?"

"Yeah, since you fell asleep in my car the other day."

"Castle," she hisses. "Keep it down."

"Okay."

"Seriously, Castle, I'm afraid to borrow this."

"Don't be. I have a back up."

He didn't know that her eyes could be that big. "A back up? You have another one of these?"

"Yup. Just in case. You know, like a spare tire."

"What are you, cornering the market or something?"

"Something. Anyway, promise me you'll read this. At home."

"Castle."

"Come on, Beckett. Do I ever ask you to read anything?"

"Other than your Nikki Heat books? And fortune cookies? No."

"Weekend begins tonight."

"You think I have nothing better to do, Castle?"

"I can think of very few things that are better to do than reading _The Big Sleep_. The other things you wouldn't agree to." Yet. Not yet. Soon, please. Please.

She rewraps the book in tissue paper, gets out her bag and puts it inside. Then she locks it in her desk drawer. "Fine. I'll do it."

"Will you write me a book report?"

"Don't press your luck."

It's two-thirty in the morning and he wakes up with a jolt. He'd fallen asleep at his desk and it feels as though he's cleaned the Pennybaker Club floor with his tongue. He goes to his bathroom, strips down to his shorts and brushes his teeth. He walks sleepily to bed and is putting his phone in the docking station when he sees that there's a message. He clicks on. Beckett. Sent at 2:29. That must be what woke him up; the phone had been in his back pocket.

"You're right."

That's it? He's right? Much as he wants to savor that proclamation—Beckett says that he's right!—he has to know what that means. Exactly. Okay, she texted him six minutes ago. She must still be awake. He'll text. No, he'll call.

"Castle?"

"I'm right? Music to my ears. I'd come up with a less overused metaphor but I'm both tired and in shock. I'm delighted that you say I'm right, but you'll have to elaborate."

"It's the middle of the night."

"Hey, you're the one who just texted me."

"You're right about _The Big Sleep_. It's brilliant. I couldn't put it down."

"You finished it?"

"Yeah. Might have to read it again tomorrow."

He's wide awake now. No big sleep for him, but maybe some big dreams. "Isn't the language incredible? Chandler never wrote a bad sentence in his life."

"Yeah."

"Did you have a favorite line?"

"Hard to choose. I dunno, maybe. Wait."

There's some rustling, like papers being shuffled. What's she doing? "Beckett?"

"Hold on, I made some notes."

Oh, God, she made notes. If his wall of books fell over now and crushed him, he'd die happy. Well, not as happy as if—

"Here. This one. 'I don't mind if you don't like my manners. They're pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings'."

"Love that," he says, and chuckles. "It's definitely in my top ten. Suitably cynical for you, Beckett."

"Cynical? You think I'm cynical?"

Is she insulted? He'd meant that as a compliment. Shit. "Not regular cynical, cynical like hard-boiled. I mean, like you could fit right in to the book, the milieu. You know. Glamorous but tough." Can he get out of this?

"We'll have to discuss then when you're more awake, Castle. Don't think you're off the hook. So what's number one on your top ten?"

"Easy. 'She bent over me again. Blood began to move around in me, like a prospective tenant looking over a house'."

There's a freighted silence until she says. "You know that one by heart?"

"Oh, yeah. I say it to myself a lot." Can he push a little now? Since they're on the phone and he really, really hasn't pushed her before. Only a little. What the hell. "Especially when you bend over me, which doesn't happen nearly enough."

He hears more rustling, and it doesn't sound like paper. Sounds like fabric. Like sheets, maybe. Like she's in bed. His blood is moving, and he's knows exactly where it's setting up house.

"Can't have your blood stopping. I'll try to, um, bend more in the future."

"You promise, Kate? That's not just something for me to think about during the long winter evenings?"

More rustling. And then it's quiet. And then she says, "I promise. Night, Rick."

She sleeps for ten hours. It might have been more if someone weren't leaning on her doorbell at one in the afternoon. Ringing and ringing and ringing. She gets out of bed and stomps to the door. Whoever it is woke her in the middle of a four-star erotic dream and is going to pay. She looks through the peephole and sees a bored-looking kid, maybe twenty, holding a hat box. What the hell?

"Who is it?"

"Delivery for Kate Bucket."

"Beckett," she says crankily, opening the door an inch.

"Right," he says, cracking his gum as he digs a crumpled piece of paper from his jeans pocket and thrusts it at her. "Sign, please."

"Just a minute." She gets her purse from the kitchen counter, and goes back to the door, opening it just enough to take the paper, sign it, and pass it back to him with an equally crumpled dollar bill. He's lucky he's getting even that. "Leave it on the mat, please." She shuts the door and waits until she hears him get into the elevator.

She opens the door wide, picks up the box and carries it to her bedroom. When she removes the lid she finds a gorgeous fedora with a small, cream-colored envelope tucked into the band. She opens it:

"This is the hat that Bogart wore in _The Big Sleep_. Not the actual hat, which is probably in Stetson heaven by now, but the same make and model. He looked great in it, but my money's on you. Much, much sexier."

She puts it on and looks in the mirror. Not bad, if she does say so. Definitely not bad. And then she flashes on the dream that had been so rudely interrupted a few minutes ago. Castle had been standing here, in her bedroom, wearing a hat just like this. And nothing else.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

They had come terrifyingly close to death, trapped in the car in the frigid waters of the Hudson River. He's embarrassed at having thought that at least they'd have gone together. If they had, he'd have been spared the roiling anger of Beckett when he confessed that he had slept with Sophia Turner, rage that culminated in her saying, "Sleep with whoever you want. The more the merrier." They'd been in the autopsy room; she'd spat out those words like shards of ice, and Alexis had overheard. Never mind that his affair with Sophia ended eleven years ago, Beckett had found out only last week, and he's still cringing.

And then there's the pain and humiliation of his titanic misjudgment of Sophia. Is he the world's biggest fool, or what? It's not just that she was a traitor, it was the venality of it all. Sophia did what she did for money: there were no principles involved, patriotic or otherwise. It was just cold hard cash. Cold and hard, like the monster herself. When it was all over, Beckett was unbelievably generous to him. She could so easily have gloated, she had every reason to rub his nose it it, but instead she empathized. His heart sang.

They had gone directly from that apocalypse-averted case to a fairytale. Not the one that he hopes they'll embody some day, but a double homicide in which the two victims had been dressed up as characters from the Brothers Grimm: Little Red Riding Hood and Snow White. They had found a third wearing a Sleeping Beauty costume, unconscious but still alive. Her name was Charlotte Boyd, but it could have been Charlotte Ruse, since she wasn't a victim but the killer. She had staged an attack on herself to frame someone else, and she'd nearly succeeded.

And now? They're in his living room, where his mother is giving a dramatic reading of her (highly fictionalized) autobiographical one-woman show. Martha had invited Beckett, who for unfathomable reasons had accepted. She's sitting next to him, chuckling at his mortification, when a tiny gesture—something that under other circumstances would mean almost nothing—shoots endorphins to his brain. He's suddenly wildly happy, and it's all because she's holding his hand. She has done it a few other times, but this one is different. It feels like the start of—. He's afraid to say it, even to himself. He doesn't move, but starts a mental game. If she's still holding on after he counts to ten, this means something. If he counts to 50 and her hand is still there, it _really_ means something. If, if, if, if he reaches 100, he's going to kiss her, tonight. But not here, not in front of his mother and daughter. Save that for the wedding. God almightily, Beckett better not be reading his mind.

He counts slowly: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Kuala Lumpur, five Saint Augustine, six Burkina Faso, seven Philadelphia, eight Mediterranean…. When he hits ninety-nine Waxahachie, her hand is still wrapped around his. Okay, this is it, the longest place name in Wales and maybe the world: one hundred Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. She hasn't let go, and he squeezes her hand so hard she yelps.

"Hey!"

"Sorry!"

Alexis glares at the interruption. He smiles apologetically, which isn't easy since he'd much rather be grinning like a madman. Or like someone in love, which he is. Most definitely, assuredly, positively is. Maybe they should go to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch for their honeymoon.

Finally, finally. The reading is over, and Beckett is up on her feet, applauding. "Brava, Martha! Bravissima!"

"Don't encourage her," he says, though he does stand and smile. "Mother? Champagne's on me." He gets the bottle that's been chilling all evening, brings it to the living room and pours glasses for the little group. He finishes his as quickly as etiquette allows and then bows briefly to his mother. "Detective Beckett and I have to leave now, which means the rest of the bubbly is for you."

"Oh!" Martha claps her hands. "You two are going on a date!"

"No, mother, we're getting something to eat since we came here right from the precinct and haven't eaten anything since we shared a third-rate pizza with Ryan and Esposito about nine hours ago. And then, gentleman that I am, I will see Beckett home."

"Sounds like a date to me, Dad."

"Not a date, Alexis. I'd tell you to go do your homework, but I'm sure you already did. Keep an eye on Gram 'til I get back."

He hustles Beckett out the door before she can protest. They're in the elevator when she asks, "We're going to dinner?"

"I had to get out of there before my mother decided to run through the whole thing again. Besides, aren't you starving?"

"Bit of an exaggeration there about the pizza, Castle. We had burgers and fries and salad—correction, I had salad, you had onion rings."

"Okay, but it was hours ago. And I am hungry."

"Me, too."

They walk to a little Italian place around the corner that's been there forever, slide into a booth, and order without even opening their menus. "Uh, Beckett? Is your hand okay?"

She flexes her fingers. "Yeah, it's fine. Hell of a grip you have there. What was that all about, anyway?"

"Wales." Not what he'd meant to say. It had fallen out of his mouth. She is infiltrating his brain.

"Wales?"

"Oh, wails. Wailing, that's what I wanted to do, wail. That play was endless."

"Huh. Okay."

She looks as though she doesn't believe it a word of it, but he doesn't care. They talk about the case they're just closed. "I know that life isn't a fairy tale," he says, "but I do believe in happily ever afters." He waits to see if she'll respond, but she's quiet. "That's the kind of person I am."

"I know," she says. "I'm glad."

Dinner is both easy and hard. Easy because in so many ways they're like an old pair of shoes, beyond comfortable, a perfect fit, indispensable. But it's hard because he wants to get out of here and kiss her as though it's the end of the world, which is what he thought it had been when they were sinking in the car.

"Castle?"

"Oh, sorry, what?"

"I said, 'Are you having dessert?' How could you have tuned that out? It's probably one of your favorite questions."

"Right, sorry. Again. Busy brain. It's been a hell of a few weeks."

The waiter suddenly materializes and looks expectantly at Beckett. "I'd like a cappuccino, please."

"And I'd like a tiramisu, please."

"No coffee, Castle?"

"I'll just live vicariously through yours. I have to get up at five-thirty to take Alexis to the meeting point for her class trip."

"Where's she going?"

"Seven. Er, Philadelphia. American history, Independence Hall, you know." Seven. God. She must think he's slipped a cog. At least he hadn't broken her hand. Her beautiful, elegant, soft hand.

It takes more will power than usual not to wolf down his dessert; she does take a long time to drink a cup of cappuccino. Still, he's enjoying the view, as he surreptitiously (he hopes) watches her swallow, follows the coffee down her beautiful, elegant long neck. He has to gulp.

She takes the napkin from her lap and drops it to the left of the dessert fork she hadn't used. She's done. They can leave. He can kiss her, but not here.

When they get outside she pats his sleeve. "No need to see me home, Castle, since you have to get up so early. I'll just grab a cab."

"Absolutely not. My car's fifty yards from here, see?" He points up the street, and looks up at a streetlight. "Besides, it's starting to snow and theaters just got out and you'll never find a taxi."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"No, I drive a Mercedes."

"I can tell I'm tired. I thought that was funny."

She lives only twenty-one blocks away, so the ride doesn't take long. He's still trying to decide how to approach this kiss. He's had years to plan it, so why hasn't he? Damn, they're here. Her building. At least there's room for him to pull in. She undoes her seat belt and turns slightly towards him. "Thanks, Castle. This was really nice." She's reaching for the handle. She's going to open the door.

"Beckett!"

She turns back and looks alarmed.

"Kate!"

"Is something wrong?"

He gulps again. "I hope not. I really, really hope not." He cradles her jaw and then slides his hands up her cheeks and into her hair. He can already taste the cappuccino on her lips as he pulls her close to him, and launches the kiss of his life.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** This chapter is Beckett's POV.

She's never been kissed like this in her life. Her eyes are closed, they flicker open, they shut. She's somehow aware that it's snowing, so it must be cold. She knows that it's cold, but it's so warm in the car. Hot. It's hot in the car even though the heat isn't turned on. Oh, but there's heat, and something is turned on. They have the same source, and it's not automotive, it's man-made. A man is generating this heat and she is so turned on by that she can barely think or breathe. This six-foot-two, one-man power station whose hands are in her hair and then everywhere else and his tongue is in her mouth, so gentle and then not at all gentle. And his perfect teeth, but she remembers that they're not perfect, they're cutely crooked on the bottom, but he's using them perfectly now, she feels them in all their perfection just below her ear and then against her collarbone. They're in the car but somehow he has drawn her so close that even in their heavy winter coats she can feel the massiveness of his chest, feel her breasts pressed against it, feel her nipples tighten even through all those layers and there is his hand under her coat, those amazing fingers must have undone buttons but she's so undone she didn't know it was happening and there they are, his fingers are pinching her nipples through her bra, and now he's caressing them, and moving. And his mouth is over hers and humming into it and then it isn't, she feels the absence of it on her swollen lips but oh, God, he has slipped her breasts out of the lacy confines of her bra and is sucking on her nipple, and then her whole breast is in his hot, sweet mouth, and then it's on the other nipple, and she comes as if she had been struck by lightning, which she has been, with her hands tight on his shoulders while she screams his name.

"Kate?"

"Oh, my God, Castle." She feels as though she's here and not; her corporeal self is quivering against him but some other self—her spirit, who knows?—is floating above them. Her eyes are wide open and locked on his.

"Did you just? I mean—"

She exhales unsteadily and smiles bashfully, although their behavior in the parked car has been anything but shy. "I did. Never had that before." Now she looks down, away from his loving face.

"I know."

"You know?" Her eyes are right back on him. "How could you know?"

"I mean, I know what it is. A nipple orgasm. I wasn't sure it even existed and I sure as hell never, uh, _produced_ one. Caused it. Elicited. Triggered. Coaxed."

She can't help laughing as she leans against his chest. "So proud of yourself, aren't you?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothin'. But I'm proud of me."

"Yeah?"

"Because it tells me how much I trust you, that I would let go like that. And another thing? I never, ever scream, but I know I screamed your—. Oh, shit! Castle!" She pulls her coat tight around her and suddenly has the horrified expression of someone in a Goya etching. "We're in your _car_. In front of my _building_."

He peers out, still completely besotted. "Yeah, we are. Wow, and we fogged up the windshield."

She swats him softly on the arm. "You fogged up my brain, Castle. What if someone I know saw us? Or—" she shudders, and her voice drops down an octave, "heard us. Me. Heard me." She covers her Goya face.

"Nobody heard you."

"How do you know? They could be huddled on the corner discussing it. I'm going to have to sneak in and out of my building for a month. In a disguise."

He looks her up and down. "Pretty freaking hard to disguise you, Kate."

She sits up in her seat and tries to smooth down her hair. "I'm going upstairs now." She takes his hand from her knee and kisses his open palm.

"Can I—"

"Not tonight, Castle." She squeezes his hand. "Everything just changed."

"Kate, are you sorry? Should I—"

"No! Of course I'm not sorry. It's." She's looking at him with love-drunk seriousness. "It's. You've, well, you've been wooing me for weeks. I know you have. I knew it right away, after the tiger, but when you kissed me here you took me completely by surprise." She runs a hand across his jaw. "I just need a night, a night to let it sink in, and settle. Okay?"

"Okay. And Kate?"

"Mmm?"

"Don't want to take you by surprise, so I want you to know that I'm about to kiss you."

She kisses him back, but stops before the steam can rise again, and opens the door. "Night, Castle."

He's home in minutes. He sleeps as though he's been hit in the head by a rock, and wakes only because his alarm goes off noisily at 5:45.

She's way too wired to sleep, so she changes into soft pajamas, and sits down at her desk. She takes a small key from a wooden box, unlocks the top drawer, and withdraws a little cache. There's the front of the Frosted Flakes box, which she had carefully cut out; the Al Kaline baseball card in a protective plastic sleeve; the _Watchmen_ comic book; the little plush tiger; the card on which Castle had written "Fresh out of bananas" and set in with the edible arrangement; a flash drive that holds "Yes We Have No Bananas," and a print of a photo that she'd taken of Castle with Hooch when he wasn't looking. The fedora is sitting on top of the desk, and she puts it on. She lifts each present and studies it before giving it a spot on the desk. He had chosen every one of these for her. For _her_. With infinite care and attention. Another guy would have sent roses or orchids after the tiger incident; he had sent tiger lilies. A meadow's worth, at that. What he had exercised most for her was his imagination; that was his extravagance. That's why all of this has seized her heart.

"No wonder I love you, Castle," she says, looking at the little array and promising herself that she will tell him. When she checks her watch she's startled to see that it's almost five; no point in trying to take a nap now. She does half an hour of yoga, takes a shower, gets dressed, and goes to work. It's still dark when she walks into the bullpen at seven, but the bakery down the block was already open, and she had gotten Castle his favorite morning junk food, a Boston cream pie doughnut.

She hasn't even gone to the break room to make coffee when she hears the elevator door open; she doesn't look up since she assumes it's someone getting in a little early for a case. And then someone stops in front of her desk. A six-foot-two someone, the one-man power station, carrying two cups of coffee and an envelope.

He intentionally runs his hand over hers when he passes her her latte. "Morning, Beckett," he says.

It's so simply erotic that she blushes. How can four pedestrian syllables reduce her to this? In a public place, no less? Thank God no one is around yet. She clears her throat. "Morning, Castle. Thanks for the coffee. Oh, and I have a little something for you." She picks up the waxy bakery bag and he peeks in.

"Beckett! Does this mean you're sweet on me?"

Shit, is she going to blush every time he opens his mouth? She may have to send him home. "It might."

"I have something for you, too," he says, and slides the envelope to her.

"This a card? What's the occasion? It's the beginning of March. No holidays for weeks yet."

"Just something I thought suited the occasion."

She has the flap half open and stops. "The occasion?"

"Last night."

That does it. She may have to spend the day in the ladies room or somewhere else he can't get near. A nunnery, maybe. "I'm not opening this here, Castle."

"It's completely harmless. G-rated. Great art. Nothing embarrassing. Go on."

"If you're lying, I'll kill you."

"Kill me? Is that any way to talk to the man who gave you a ni—"

She is shooting him with her eyes. The glare that could stop an invading army. She pulls up the other half of the flap on the envelope and takes out the postcard that's inside. He wasn't kidding. It's Edvard Munch's _The Scream_ , a great work of art, G-rated. Maybe PG, since the screaming person is pretty scary looking. She flips over the card and reads the message he wrote: "Really? You never screamed before?"

Beckett puts her hands on her desk, palms down, and addresses Castle though her face is aimed squarely at her lap. "Please sit down. Do not look at me. I am going to get up and go splash cold water on my face and lower my pulse rate. And when I come back you will remember than you have an appointment, a whole raft of appointments, and can't be in the precinct today."

"You're kicking me out?"

"Temporarily."

"Can I come back tomorrow?"

"You can come back tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes. My place. Eight o'clock. Now you'll have to excuse me," she stands up and beams at him. "But I have to go wash my face."

She doesn't know how she survives the shift. Around ten Ryan says, "Is Castle coming today?" She has a coughing fit and blushes for at least the fifth time since sunrise. She has to mute her phone because Castle is texting her every fifteen minutes; she reads them in groups of eight, standing in the staircase where no one can see her.

Even the slowest day comes to an end, and this one did. Beckett bolts home, stopping only to pick up one small pastry. She's in the door by six and fills the two hours by changing clothes (four times), changing sheets (twice), opening a bottle of wine to breathe and putting the pastry she'd bought on a plate.

By the time Castle knocks on the door, she's wound so tight she's about to fly apart. He has flowers, of course, an armload of daffodils. "Because they're cheerful. They're the beginning of something." She manages to find enough vases and jars to accommodate them. A few go in an old coffee pot.

"I could use a drink, couldn't you?" She waves her arm at the coffee table. "The wine's ready to pour. I just have to get something from the kitchen."

He's waiting on the sofa for her when she returns, plate in hand. "What's that?"

"Tiramisu. It's for you."

"Really? Okay. I love it. Any reason you're offering me that? Aren't you having any?"

She hands him the plate and surprises him by sitting on his lap, facing him. "I want you to eat it so you'll taste just like you did last night. I couldn't get enough of you. You know what I kept thinking when I got upstairs, afterwards?"

He spears a forkful of dessert, chews it, and swallows. "What did you keep thinking?"

"How you scrambled my brain. I kept thinking of the tiramisu and then I said, 'Ai! It's rum!' "

He squints at her and then laughs. "Tiramisu! Scrambled, it's ai! it's rum!"

"Dopey, huh?"

"Nope. Clever. Adorable. So I scrambled your brain, huh? What did I do to the rest of your body?"

"I think you're about to find out," she says, taking a crumb of pastry off his chin and licking it seductively off her fingertip.

"You gonna kiss me? I think I taste of tiramisu."

She does. The rest of the pastry falls onto the floor. Neither one of them notices. She's unbuttoning his shirt and he's got his hands under hers, on her rib cage. "Kate?"

"Mmmm."

"Are you wearing the same bra you had on yesterday?"

"Why?"

"I think it's my lucky bra."

"If you move your hands a little higher I think you'll find I'm not wearing a bra at all."

"That mean I'm going to get lucky in a hurry?"

"I think it does." She stops unbuttoning. "Can I ask you something first? Sort of serious."

"Uh-oh." He removes his hands.

She grabs hold of them. "Not uh-oh. I just want to know before we go, um, any further. Why didn't you give up on me Castle? Anyone else would have. Did."

"Because you're worth it. I'm pertinacious, Beckett."

"That's not all you are, but I love that word." She wiggles on his thighs. "Thank you."

"Now I have to ask you something." He slides his hands inside the back of her yoga pants, over the smooth, taut skin of her ass. "When did you decide to give in?"

"Really?" She wiggles a little more forcefully, and a little higher up on his legs.

"Yes, really. Oh, wow."

Her face and her breasts are tantalizingly close. "You probably could have gotten me into bed with the Frosted Flakes."

"Are you kidding?" He moans.

"C'mon, Castle, tell me you didn't notice my tongue action when I was eating the cereal. When I just had to lick some milk off my bottom lip?"

His hands, still inside her pants, are moving from back to front, and his moan moves to a groan. "Can I lick something off you Kate?"

"God, yes, please do. The sooner the better. In fact, now. Now is a really, really good time." She's gasping. "But I have to warn you."

"About what?" He's having as much trouble breathing as she.

"The screaming? I have a feeling that it might become a habit."

 **A/N** To all of you, thanks for coming along on another story. Special thanks to those who followed or favorited or reviewed. To the anonymous reviewers, a tip of the hat for your support, since I couldn't thank you any other way.


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